


fiercely, tenderly and eternally

by Amymel86



Series: the other half to my soul [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Scars, austen au, dumbasses in love, dumbasses in love in period clothing, folks doing romantic shit in the rain, georgian era au, part 2 of 2, regency au, tw: burns, very fucking convenient since these two dummies love each other, vivi's birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: “Sansa, wait.” She turns to look at him and those beautiful blue eyes are aswim with tears. “Sansa, what has upset you so?”Those eyes blink rapidly, willing the tears to dry up and whatever pain that had caused them away. Jon braces his sensibilities. If it is here and now that she tells him she is in love with another man and is unhappy in their marriage then he shall bear witness to her heartache. He will hear it all and shatter from within.But he already knows he will not give her up so easily.And therein lays the truth of his selfish heart.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: the other half to my soul [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825645
Comments: 48
Kudos: 345





	fiercely, tenderly and eternally

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts).



> HOLY SHIT I FINISHED SOMETHING!
> 
> hellooo! here's part 2 of this regency era au that I wrote for Vivi's birthday :)
> 
> Thank you all so much to those who left lovely comments on part 1 - its is very much appreciated and I will respond in the morning :)
> 
> A small note before we get into the second part - Rhaenys has come to stay with her little daughter - she is married in the au but since I couldn't decide who I wanted to pair her with, this mystical fantastic hubby of hers is just chillin' at home in their own manor house and he's literally never mentioned, Ok? Ok. Feel free to headcanon who ever you want (but make them hot and sweet because Rhaenys deserves it)

She’d had the dream again. It has changed somewhat over the months since the fire and the ghost of the pain no longer haunts her, thank the gods. But Jon was there, as he always is.

“No, no, no, no, Sansa,” he says feverishly, kneeling down to find her on the floor. “Sansa, wake up, wake up sweet girl, wake up! _Please!”_ He is surrounded by a halo of brightest orange. And all around him is smoke as if he were a monstrous dragon with a burning tongue and brimstone in his belly. But she is not afraid. She is angry – _incensed..._ but she does not know at what. It is not Jon. Jon lifts her in her state of aflame and they fly, fly, fly until it is as though they mean to dine amongst the stars.

And where it was burning, it is now cool – except for this-... this seething anger – this _rage_ that she cannot pin down its origin or purpose. It flares unexpectedly and robs her lungs of air.

Her physician, Dr Luwin says that her loss of memory from that night was likely caused by the blow to her head and should return to her in time. She hopes the answer to the cause of her anger returns with it.

Or perhaps it is plainly evident. Perhaps it is because she can no longer stand to see herself in the looking glass? Or witness the pitying expressions on the servants faces? Maybe it is because Harry has not visited her once which leaves her both confused and relieved.

Dear Harry once called her a great beauty, a jewel in the north. If he laid eyes on her today, no doubt he would retract the title.

Her legs received the most damage; burns licking up her shins and on her right thigh. The rest of the fire’s kiss crept up her hip, her arm and on one side of her neck, reaching as far as her jaw. Her skin is now a vivid pink where once it had been pale as cream, is chewed by the beastly flame where once it had been soft and silk-like.

Sansa stares numbly at her reflection in the looking glass. She wears her hair down mostly now – to cover the burns. She looks like a child. If she dons a bonnet with a wide-ribboned bow, paired with a high collar or artfully applied scarf, she is just about able to pull it off.

Or draw more attention to herself.

Sansa used to love attention. As a younger girl, she would conduct plays of her own design and force Arya into a character of her choosing. Papa would sit ever so patiently, clapping heartily when his girls would take a bow.

What would papa think now? Now that Sansa has declined all her invitations and become a recluse here at Winterfell?

It’s the whisperings she fears most – of the poor girl, caught in the fire, ever so lucky to come away with her life.

And she _is_ lucky. If Jon had not found her then-

It does not bear thinking about.

... but then, why does she not feel lucky at all?

The fire has changed her. Not just marred her once unblemished skin. It has altered her in some way – changed who she is as though the heat of the flames melted her down and now is moulded anew.

She is told that Harry tried to visit once – when she was newly recovering and not in a state to receive guests. He was duly turned away and sent her a single letter. Sansa is yet, these some months later, to respond to dear Harry and she cannot fathom the reason for it.

Every so often, she will sit – at her writing desk – goose feather quill in hand, nib dipped in ink.... and then dipped in ink again.... and then a third time. Still, the parchment lays bare.

What is wrong with her?

Why can she not summon the words she has for him? She used to write pages on how he moved her heart and now she cannot scratch a single salutation?

Mama suggests that Sansa may be troubled by the prospect of seeing Harry again, now that she is so... _changed_.

Dear Jon merely grunts at the notion, shifting in his seat. He offered a soft smile when their eyes had met and gently told her that she had nothing to distress her in that respect.

And perhaps mama is correct? Maybe she is worried that Harry would not want to propose to her now that she is... like this. But then he would not be the other half of her soul, would he not? The other half of her soul would not give a care to her diminished beauty, he would only rejoice that she is still here, live and well and willing to love him.

And so – for whatever the true reason – Sansa has not corresponded with Harry. The only people to have seen her as she is now are Winterfell’s servants, Arya, Mama and Jon.

Her mother treats her like she is made of crystal, so fragile that if not hidden away and watched in all hours of the day, she might slip and shatter. Arya has taken to walking the grounds with her – for which she has suspended her fascination with climbing trees – for the time being, at least. Jon usually joins them at some point or other – in fact he has formed a reliable habit of happening on her wherever she might be on the estate. Sansa finds – quite puzzlingly – that she is glad of it – glad of his company.

She finds her cousin not to be dull at all, now that she feels she knows him a little better. In fact he is rather attentive.... unless the subject of Harrold Hardyng is broached and then it is like the shutters lock over his expression. Sansa tends not to speak of Harry often with Jon because of it. She can remember – with regret – the way she struck dear Jon’s face before the fire.

Sansa should never like to quarrel with Jon again like she had before, but she wonders if what she is about to ask will meet with any resistance from him, since he, along with mama has been particularly careful with her these last few months.

“I should like Winterfell to hold a ball,” she proclaims over luncheon one day. All three of her companion’s soup spoons hover in the space between bowl and lips, eyes staring at her. Arya is the first to resume to her meal. Both mama’s and Jon’s spoons are abandoned to their bowls, soup forgotten.

“A ball?,” her mother asks, “Sansa, why should you want such a thing?”

“It has been ever such a long time since Winterfell held one,” she says, he smile feeling foreign and too big for her cheeks. It slides away easily. She takes a sip of soup. Jon clears his throat but does not speak.

“But, darling...” her mother counters, and Sansa is expected to know what that _‘but, darling’_ means.

And she does.

_But, darling, there will be people._

_But, darling, the people will see you._

_But, darling, you might upset yourself._

_Good_ , Sansa thinks. If she is upset then maybe she’ll feel _something_. When father passed, she had Harry and all the joy of feeling in love. That joy is not there anymore and she needs something to replace it – something to fill in the ‘nothing’, the numbness. Maybe, she won’t upset herself. Maybe she’ll see that it is not so bad and her ruined skin does not mean she has ruined friendships.

Or maybe that perplexing anger will return and grow and grow until she is consumed by something again.

Anything would be preferable to the emptiness she feels now.

“I will have to face people at some point, mother,” Sansa says.

“Yes,” she agrees, albeit warily, “but a ball? There will be so many. Can we not invite a select few for luncheon, or a picnic?”

Sansa places her spoon down beside her bowl. “Those options take place in daylight.”

Her eyes remained on her cutlery but she knew they were all looking at her. When she lifts her gaze her suspicions are confirmed. They all took her meaning; her scars appeared less ghastly under candlelight.

Jon’s look was soft and sorrowful. His focus the raw pink skin of her throat. “We could invite a select few for a supper party,” he suggests.

Sansa smiles, pleased. “That will do,” she said, taking another spoonful of soup. “Be sure to invite Mr Waters.”

Beside her, her sister’s cheeks were blooming a beautiful shade of raspberry pink.

***

Jon woke in a sweat. He could feel the flames licking at him in his sleep, but the truly terrifying pain came from the spiked panic of searching for her.

And when he found her, her form crumpled on the floor, skirts singed black, unmoving, Jon’s heart stopped. It stops every time he dreams it.

Fevered thoughts calm in the dark of his chambers, the only noise his panted breath. Jon flops unceremoniously back into his sheets and stares at the ceiling rose above. He has never been so scared as that night when he went back into the fire. When he carried her out he had not a clue as to whether he’d found her too late.

He rises, knowing sleep will elude him now, no matter how he tries to chase it down. Breeches are pulled up over his hips but left loose. Barefoot, he leaves his chambers with candle in hand. Earlier in the day Mrs Stark had shown him a large tomb that documented his mother’s lineage and he had a mind to retrieve it from the library.

Shadows would swell and die as he walks through the silence of the house. He was quite in his own mind as he came upon the library, almost missing that the space was host to another midnight visitor. She had not seen him yet, but Jon had seen her, sat upon the padded window seat, her own candle almost down to the wick.

Sansa’s hair was down as it often is now – to hide the scarring on her throat and jaw. It falls in copper waves, soft and silken. She is in her night-shift, buttoned up in loose cotton. It does not occur to him that he should not be viewing her in this state until it may be too late.

“Jon!” exclaims she, shooting to her feet, bare against the polished floor boards. Her own candle perched upon the sill behind her transforms the cotton of her shift translucent . He can see the curves beneath and his mind is too slow to tell him to give her his back. It isn’t until she tugs a shawl over her shoulders that he comes to his senses and turns around, his face colouring.

“I am sorry,” he says, candle flickering as he talks, “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“It’s alright,” says she. “You may turn around again, Jon.”

“Did you have trouble sleeping too?” she asks, now sat back down.

Jon goes to join her. “Aye.” He tries to only speak to her face. A tendril of her pretty hair is curling in such a way that it follows the curve of her breast. Jon instantly tries to forget he had noticed. “Is there anything in particular that’s troubling you, cousin?”

“I-“ her eyes flittered down. Jon followed them to see that she was smoothing a well-worn piece of parchment on her knee.

“A letter of bad tidings?”

“No... not bad.” Her voice was soft and quiet. It suited a night such as this. Her face was abashed, even with half her features in shadow. “It is a letter from Harry. Enquiring after my health after... after the fire.”

Something twists painfully within Jon. He had not realised how pleasant many months without any talk of Hardyng had been. The blackguard had attempted to visit Sansa during her convalescence. Mrs Stark had seen him away knowing that her daughter was not ready to face anyone. He had not attempted such a thing since. “It keeps you awake? His enquiry?”

A breath expels from between her lips, making their candles flicker and dance. “It is not so much the enquiry than my reaction to it.”

“Your reaction to it?” How so?”

Jon watched as his cousin battled with the thoughts within her head. “Mother thinks I do not write to him because I am afraid of confessing what I am now.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “And what is that?”

“A grotesque.” Her voice was even softer still. She would not look at him.

Jon heart was tight in his chest. “Hush,” he murmurs, reaching forward and taking her hand in his. She was small and delicate and yet strong somehow too. Nevertheless, he felt an overwhelming desire to shield her from such talk. “You are not, and could never be a grotesque, sweet girl.”

Her eyes found his, shining deep and blue. A man might drown in those eyes. His thumb brushes over hers, once, twice. She said nothing. “If any man can look at you and think such a thing then they are the ones who suffer as a grotesque – a grotesque at heart.”

Still, she said nothing, only regarded him for a while until her gaze dropped to where he held her delicate hand. Realisation struck. With them both here alone in the dead of night and with his cousin in such a state of undress, this was far from proper. “My apologies,” he said, hastily releasing her hand. Jon clears his throat for not a reason at all and averts his eyes to the floor. He could feel her making a study of him. When he looks to her again, his cousin pulls the shawl up on her burnt side, attempting to hide the scars along her neck and jaw. It did very little to conceal them.

“I do not think that is the reason that I have not yet written to Mr Hardyng though.”

“Oh?”

“I... I...” Her eyes skittered about in the dark, searching for the correct words hidden on dim bookshelves or secluded away in the black shadows. “The joy I used to feel about Harry... the _love_... it is different now. I cannot say why.” Jon stays silent but he cannot deny that he was curious indeed. “When I look at his words and sentiments,” she unfolds the precious letter from her hand, “my mind tells me _‘this is your Harry, this is the other half to your soul! Rejoice! Rejoice!’_ but... my heart-“ she looks up to him and takes a breath. Jon’s heartbeat is loud in the silence. “My heart tells me something other.”

“Something other?”

She stood and Jon watches her move. With her hair unbound, her shift so white and her little bare feet upon the wood of the floor, she looks half ghost, half fae, lost among the books. Her finger trails along the edge of a shelf. “I think you may have been right about Harry,” she whispers. “I do not know what has changed my mind, but I... I feel...” She turns to face him. “I never apologised for striking you that day.”

Jon went to her. Hesitancies over improprieties forgotten, he reaches out and gently held the side of her head in his hand. “There is nothing to forgive,” he said, tilting her so that he may lay a kiss to her forehead. Her skin was warm beneath his lips, when he pulls away his gaze fell to her mouth before he could stop himself. It was a mistake; a half-moment of lapsed senses. He releases her promptly. “Besides, I do recall I had forbade you to marry _‘the other half to your soul’_. I should have foretold you being angry with me.” He chose to ignore the small voice in his mind telling him that he is quite capable of forbidding her to marry again and again.

Sansa grimaces. It was a completely new expression to have been seen on her. Jon found it rather endearing. Before his wits could assemble themselves, he found his hand cradling her head again. For an utterly mad moment, he thinks to kiss her – to kiss her as a lover. But that would not do. She blinks up at him with those doe eyes and his fingers start to toy with a tendril of her silken hair. His gaze is then drawn to the burns at her jaw and it as if his whole body stills for reason unknown. When finally she nods, a move minute and quick, he realises he was awaiting her permission.

The pad of his forefinger and thumb brush down to the pink puckered skin. He glances to her eyes again, waiting for signs of discomfort. Instead, she tilts her head like the dutiful, trusting creature she is. Jon takes her invitation and traces the destruction of fire. His movements are slow, gentle across her jaw, falling down her neck, her shoulder and finally her breastbone. Dr Luwin reported the damage to have reached further; down, down, down the length of her body beneath her sleeping shift. Jon swallows, his fingers softly resting where marred skin meets cotton.

“You must...” she says, almost whispering as she sways a little on her bare feet, “... you must be sure to invite Miss Tyrell.”

“Hm?” Jon finds his mind is not with him at present but comes galloping back at break-neck speed. “Oh! Oh, yes,” he says, abruptly pulling his hand away from his cousin’s chest. What the devil was he thinking?! “Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?”

She blinks at him and the way he took two steps back from her. “If you want to continue your courtship, of course.”

There was hardly a courtship to speak of, but Sansa was correct; he needed to inject more effort into the pursuit of Miss Margaery Tyrell. He cannot say it enthuses him.

“And Mr Waters has already accepted his invitation, yes?” she asks keenly.

There was that odd pain in his heart again. “Yes,” Jon replies turning away to retrieve his candle. He was overcome with the sudden desire to be alone with his thoughts. “Yes, Mr Waters is happy to attend.”

“Good,” she smiles beautifully – so beautifully it hurt to look at.

Jon bade her a good night and hastily returns to his chambers where he spends the remainder of the night wondering when it had been that his cousin’s affections had transferred from Harrold Hardyng to Mr Waters... and, most troublingly, why it ignited the deepest slice of jealousy within his heart.

***

“It rather suits you, you know,” Jon’s sister, Rhaenys told him after the servants had left them with their tea. She is finally attending her long overdue visit with him here at Winterfell, bringing her three year old daughter, Visenya too.

“What does?” he asks with a smile. Jon had missed her very much.

Her shoulder rose as she placed her teacup back upon its saucer. “Lordship, the north, Winterfell.”

“It is only a pity that what brought me here was my uncle’s death.”

“Indeed,” Rhaenys bobbed her head, a gentle look to her eye. “Very sad.” She took another sip of tea and brightened to hear the sound of her daughter being entertained by Arya in the room down the hall. “Your new family seem very pleasant. It is a shame what happened to the elder cousin, she looks as though she was a great beauty before-“

“And she still _is_ a great beauty.” Something glowed hot in his belly.

“Of course. My apologies, I-” She studied him, an act that made Jon shift in his seat. “Upon my word, you are so very protective of the girl, Jon. I meant no harm by the statement.”

“And I’d thank you to keep your _statements_ on the matter to yourself.” He leant back, straightening his waistcoat. His sister watches him with calculating eyes. Rhaenys always had a way of weedling out the truth from any given situation, she could make a stone statue confess its sins if she pondered it long enough. But she wasn’t to have Jon’s truth today, not when he’d only just learnt it himself. The realisation still had not made a comfortable home within him. That is – he is yet to fully explore his growing feelings for Miss Sansa Stark. The conclusion itself quite knocked his feet from under him.

“Is she out?” his sister asked.

Jon swallowed his tea, hot on his tongue. “Yes. She is.”

“And are there any attachments on the horizon?”

“There may be,” he said, trying not to sound too curt. He stood to gaze out of the window.

There was silence for a while. His sister hummed pleasantly after taking a delicate bite of her biscuit. “And how is everything coming along with your Miss Tyrell? Father is getting impatient for news from what I hear.”

Turning, Jon gave her the shortest flash of a smile but he knew very well she would understand it. “Shall we go to see your daughter? I have missed my niece tremendously.” With that, he left the room.

***

Mrs Stark has invited Hardyng to the supper party. Jon is rather unenthused by the notion but he supposes he should have expected it.

His sister Rhaenys continues to delight his cousins; Sansa because she is kind and they share interests in fashions and dancing, Arya because Rhaenys allows her to play all manner of games with her daughter, no matter how un-lady-like or dirty.

Jon, for his part, is feeling tremendous unease about the party tonight. Hardyng may have lost favour with Sansa since the fire, but what if seeing him in person rekindles something within her that she thought was forever lost? What if she returns to loving Harry and hating him?

And even if that does not happen, Gendry Waters will be in attendance. Jon could very well forbid his cousin from entering in on any kind of attachment with the man – he is beneath her in station and circumstance after all, but that reasoning did not sit right with Jon. Not at all. A natural born son he may be, but that does not encumber on his character.

He knows why he does not want Sansa to simply transfer her affections from Hardyng over to Waters; he wants those affections for himself. He wants _her_ for himself. Why did he not see this before?

If, to be in love, your soul finds its other half – as Sansa proclaims it is – then does her soul not seek for his? How is it that she is looking to Waters when his soul is yearning for hers?

One thing, Jon knows as a certainty; to love is to bleed. And he feels wounded most terribly.

“Mr Targaryen,” Gendry Waters says in greeting, giving him a short bow before Jory takes his greatcoat. “I am very humbled to have been invited tonight.” He smiles. Jon manages a mirrored flicker of the expression all while wishing he could shove the man back through the doors and out into the evening.

“You are very welcome, Mr Waters,” he lies.

Mr Loras Tyrell and Miss Tyrell were next to arrive. Jon bows to them both, swiftly handing them off to Mrs Stark to entertain.

They were to gather in the front parlour before the gong for supper. Pre-meal drinks were being served and guests were conversing pleasantly. There were perhaps fifteen or so people at their little event – Jon knew most of the faces and was able to place many names but truly it was Mrs Stark who had designed his list of invitation even while he penned them.

“Ah, there she is,” a rather white-whiskered, rotund friend of Mrs Stark, Mr Manderly said jollily as Sansa and his sister, Rhaenys entered the room.

His cousin wore most of her hair down so as to best conceal her burns. Her dress had been altered to include lace right up to her throat with little pearl buttons in a regimental row down the middle. Her sleeves were long and slim and she wore delicate lace fingerless mitts. Sansa was the very picture of grace and elegance and all eyes were on her.

Hesitance clouded her eyes when she beheld her room of guests. She swallows and Jon wants nothing more than to escort her from the room that clearly left her uncomfortable. Thankfully, Rhaenys took the reins beside her. “Oh now,” said she, feigning a fluster as she looked about at all the eager eyes watching his cousin, curious about the girl who survived the fire. “Come, Miss Stark, you must introduce me to your guests for I know not a soul here!” She steered Sansa towards the nearest little group.

Jon was very grateful to his sister in that moment, as he suspects his cousin is also.

“Did she forget to style her hair or is this the fashion in the north?” Miss Tyrell tittered with her brother. Jon clenched his fist and glared at the woman, trying to remind himself not to ruin this evening by creating a scene.

He watches his cousin for a time. She was gradually coming back to herself after the initial shock of facing her guests and having them face her in return. He did not miss the way her hand would not stop moving her hair into place, trying to shield her scars as much as she could.

Presently, she was conversing with Arya, Rhaenys and Mr Waters. The gentleman made a jape of some sort for all three woman react with laughter and bright smiles. Jon wanted to ask him to leave.

Mr Waters seems rather good humoured, whereas Rhaenys is not shy of teasing him for constantly looking sour. Why wouldn’t his cousin choose the man? An image of the two between white cotton sheets flashes in his mind – of hands that are not his tickling her naked sides and making her giggle and giggle and giggle. Just like she is now at something else that _great entertainer_ , Gendry Waters had to say. Jon felt ill.

And then, just as abrupt as her laughter had started, it dies altogether.

“Mr Harrold Hardyng,” Jory announces and steps aside to reveal the scoundrel. He smiles his sunrise smile and bows, easily melting into the nearest little group of guests and before Jon knows it, they are laughing too.

What great wits these two fine men are? How easily they charm. How could he even compare?

Sansa is watching Hardyng from across the room. She is quite forgotten whatever entertaining tidbit Waters had told. And Hardyng is staring right back – albeit, being more discreet. This is utter torture. Jon hopes beyond hope that she is discovering that her feelings for the man are muted now, just like she had told him that night in the dark of the library. But they stare and they stare, like lovers in possession of a secret affair.

A sudden gasp has Jon frozen. It had been Sansa, though cause of such a reaction was not known. She was blinking back tears that had apparently crept up on her. Jon blindly placed his glass down on the nearest available surface. He continues to watch Sansa as her hand goes to her throat, her mouth opening as if words were trapped on her tongue. Rhaenys looks to ask after her but she breaks away, leaving a small sob behind as she goes. Guests look to one another in shock and confusion as Miss Stark flees the room. Mrs Stark looks to Arya and then to him.

“I’ll go to her,” he murmurs before anyone could suggest otherwise.

After asking a few servants, he finds her in the library. She was pacing... and crying. “ _Sansa.”_ Her name leaves him like a prayer. “What is wrong?”

She pauses, gives him a pained expression and looks as though she struggles to breathe before promptly spinning on her heels with a sob in her throat as she continues pacing. “I remembered,” she mutters between gasps for air. “I remembered, I remembered.”

Jon stays where he is, watching her as she goes back and forth, eyes glued to the path she takes again and again. “What did you remember?”

Sansa twirls around, hair fanning out behind her. “I remembered what happened that night. I saw his face – Harry’s face – and I could see... I could see him. I could see him that night. The things he did and the things he said and then-“

She looked far off, like her mind was no longer here at Winterfell’s library, but back there, amongst the flames and smoke. Jon took a step closer and her eyes found him with his movement. “And then he left me,” she said, soft as a whisper as she was coming to the conclusion that very moment. “He left me for dead.”

The air left Jon’s lungs. “He was with you? That night? He knew you where you were and... _he left you there_?” Images of her body crumpled on the floor assaulted him – images that have plagued his dreams ever since. His hand clenches into a fist at his side, only to unfurl when he watches a tear roll down Sansa’s cheek.

She begins to nod her head rather frantically, hiccupping through her tears. “I was with him... we’d gone somewhere quiet and... he locked the door... and...” Sansa let out a sob and spun around, going to the bench seating at the window. Jon’s mind was working ten to a dozen, filling in all the blanks of her sobs with horrid, horrid images. Sansa hid her face in her hands and Jon joined her on the seat.

“Sansa,” he said gently. “What happened, sweet girl?”

“ _I’m not a sweet girl!”_ she yelled, upset. “I’m-I’m.... he called me a whore and pushed me out of the way!” After that it all came like a flood of despair. “He was kissing me and his hands – his hands where everywhere and I didn’t want more. I knew I shouldn’t have allowed him to steal the kisses but I thought he loved me! I thought I loved him too but he turned horrid! When we heard the screams we stopped and I got in the way so he pushed me to the floor and-and that’s when I hit my head. He called me a stupid whore and he- he left me there on the floor. _He left me in the fire_.”

Jon has never, ever known a rage quite like it. It surged throughout his body, through his veins, calling for the man’s blood.

Sansa began sobbing anew. “If, if I had been good and-and not improper... if I hadn’t let him _kiss_ me and touch me... I was being punished-being punished for my wanton actions and-“

“Shhh!” Jon hushes her, reaching out and taking her in his arms. She leans into him and cries; body-shaking sobs that pain him to witness. “Don’t you dare try to take blame for this, Sansa,” he told her. “That-that...” he took a breath, all words he had in mind for Hardyng were not ones that a lady should hear. “He is at fault,” he settles on, pressing a peck to his cousin’s head. “He is at fault and he will pay for it.”

She hiccups again, trying in vain to control her breathing as she looks up at him. “How will he pay?” she asks, confused.

Jon’s jaw was tight as a beast whispered from within. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Jon! No! You can’t!”

He stood, ignoring her pleas. His hands were fists again and the beast wanted them painted in blood. “He cannot be allowed to leave tonight without confrontation.”

She was in front of him, hands at his arms, trying to make him halt. “Jon, no! _Don’t!”_

“Someone needs to call him out, Sansa!” he could barely focus on her, so eager to take Hardyng to task.

“You cannot challenge him, Jon! What if you are hurt?!”

“ _Challenge him?”_ he sniggers, “I mean to crush his neck with my bare hands! I mean to-“

He was promptly cut off by Sansa’s lips upon his. One second, two, and then his mind caught up with himself. Hardyng was momentarily forgotten as a groan rumbles deep in his chest. Jon’s arms came around her, pulling her close but not nearly close enough, he wants her safe within the cage of his ribs, right beside his jubilant heart.

She pulls away in an instant, shock wrought throughout her expression. Her fingers touch her lips. “I... _forgive me_ , I do not know why...,” her tears renew in earnest. “I do not know why...” Sansa struggles with the words and Jon could not stop himself from pulling her close again, wrapping her in his arms. She sobbed into his jacket. “Forgive me, forgive me, I am truly wicked,” she whispers feverishly while Jon’s heart cracks in two.

***

Not long after murmuring reassurances into her hair, Mrs Stark appeared to announce that the gong had rung for supper and their guests were awaiting their return. She was undoubtedly upset to find her daughter so distraught and Sansa readily went from his arms to her mother’s.

Mrs Stark threw him some meaningful looks, beseeching him to explain the meaning of Sansa’s distress. Sansa, for her part, silently pled for him to keep his lips sealed and Jon would not betray her confidence. “The evening seems to be rather overwhelming for her,” he said with a gentle smile. Sansa seemed to thank him with her eyes alone.

Now he finds himself striding towards the dining room, not entirely sure what he’ll do once he arrives there. His mind reels with thoughts of Sansa and Hardyng, Sansa and Hardyng, Sansa and _him_. With her being in his arms while he surrenders himself wholly to her kiss. He’s almost completely lost in memories of those lips when he hears voices coming from the parlour he had last left his guests in. Jon stops, steps nearer. It does not sound like the whole party still lies within, no – what he is happening on is a very private encounter indeed.

“I do not know what you expect me to do about it.” The voice was unmistakably Hardyng’s. Jon is almost tempted to burst in and relieve the blackguard of some of his teeth.

“We must wed, of course! It is by your issue, Harry. You must!” Jon straightened and blinked at the barely ajar door. That sounded very much like Miss Margaery Tyrell.

Hardyng scoffed. “Just marry Targaryen and pass it off as his.”

“By the rate that man courts a woman, the child will be weaned before he thinks to make a proposal!” The comment gains a chuckle from within the room. “Harry,” said she, “you cannot walk away from this.”

Silence.

“Do not tell me you’re still intent on the Stark girl?”

Jon leant in, listening keenly.

Miss Tyrell’s query was met with yet more silence.

“Did you not see her scars, Harry? Surely the girl cannot ignite any kind of desire?!”

Unable to stand to hear any more, Jon pushes open the door and steps inside. “I assure you, Miss Tyrell, that every one of my cousin’s scars hold more beauty than that of _your_ _character!”_

She looks as though she’d been slapped about the face. “I- Mr Targaryen, please forgive me, I did not mean to-“

As the woman before him flustered, Hardyng neared, looking rather content with himself, no doubt convinced he has no reason to be concerned. Jon was very happy to set him straight on that point with a swift strike with his fist.

“ _Argh!”_ Hardyng yelps. Miss Tyrell gasps. Jon shook out the sting to his knuckles. “My nose! What the-... why... you hit my nose!”

“Oh, believe me, I very much want to do more than bloody your nose, sir.”

Harry blinked back at him, a ruby trickle smeared from one nostril.

Jon curls his lip in disgust. “ _You_ took advantage of Miss Stark,” he hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at the man. “ _You_ behaved un-gentlemanly with her, caused her injury and most importantly, _left her for dead_!” He paces away, pushing his hands through his hair only to circle back towards the man, his voice elevating. “And even when I asked you – _I asked you_ if she was in the building – if she was still in the fire – _you lied!_ I ought to wring your neck!”

Hardyng continued to blot his nose. “I... I thought she could not remember. Mrs Stark said she could not recall what happened.”

“Yes, well, one look at your wretched face and the truth assaulted her.”

“And you believe it?”

“ _Of course I bloody believe it!”_ Jon snarled.

“Please,” Miss Tyrell said meekly, “keep your voices down.”

Jon ignored the woman. “I’ll readily believe a thousand falsehoods from her lips before I believe one truth from yours!”

“I believe it is time for me to take my leave,” Hardying said, trying flee.

Jon caught him about the lapels in fists of iron. “ _Oh no you don’t!”_ he hisses, forcing Harry against the wall. “You have an announcement to make at supper, Hardyng. You’re going to give my guests the happy news of your engagement to Miss Tyrell.”

“But-“

“If you do not, I shall allow everyone to know what a coward you are.”

Harry wet his lips, his throat bobbing up and down. “And I shall tell them what a wanton little thing your cousin is for me,” he counters. “No one would want her then. She’ll be ruined. But I suppose that’s what you pray for, isn’t it, Targaryen?” he goads. Jon almost growls in response. “You want her to have no other prospects so that you can be her gallant knight and have her for yourself. You’ve always looked at her like –“

Jon closes his hand around Hardyng’s throat, pinning him against the wall with a thump of his head. “You _will_ announce your engagement to Miss Tyrell tonight, am I understood?” He squeezes harder. Hardyng was rapidly turning red, his hands clawing at Jon’s grip.

“Mr Targaryen!” Margaery Tyrell exclaims, taking a step forward but doing little else.

“ _Am I understood?”_ he asks once more.

Hardyng nods, gasping for breath. Once released he sags, holding onto his throat as if it might break apart if he did not keep it together. His breaths are heavy, he does not look up at Jon.

There’s a quiet “Thank you, sir,” from Miss Tyrell as Jon makes to leave. Her hand is on her belly and he truly believes her gratitude.

“Do not thank me, Miss Tyrell,” Jon told her. “You will endure a life of misery with him as your husband.” He looks back at Hardyng. “Come, we are expected at table and after tonight, neither of you will be welcome here at Winterfell.”

***

“Well, I do confess that I am still in a state of shock,” Mama said, accepting her second cup of tea. “Hardying and the Tyrell girl! How peculiar indeed.”

Sansa glances to Jon, sat at the head of the table while they broke their fast. His smile was tight. “We must wish them well,” he said, clearly not wanting to speak further on the matter. Her heart ached for him. He must’ve begun to have designs on taking Miss Tyrell as his wife, and then Harry comes along and ruins it for him... like he ruins everything.

Sansa had not returned to the supper party last night. It had all been rather too much to bear; her memories from the fire flooding back to her in violent waves and then... and then _kissing_ cousin Jon. But Arya came to her late, with an account of what had unfolded. Jon returned to table with Miss Tyrell first and then Harry. Sansa wonders if Miss Tyrell may have warned Jon what was about to transpire so as to soften the blow. Apparently, between courses, Harry stood and made the announcement of his engagement to Miss Tyrell, much to everyone’s surprise.

The warm feeling of her mother’s hand laid on hers tears her gaze away from her cousin this morning. She looks concerned of course. “It is quite alright, mama,” Sansa says, “my feelings for Harry have...” she could not help but glance at Jon again. He was watching her intently. “... _changed_.”

“Yes, but-“

“Let us leave Hardyng and Tyrell behind us,” Jon interrupts, taking a bite of his plum cake.

His sister decides to ignore his request. “Father will not be pleased,” she comments, while trying to get little Visenya to stay seated. Jon rolls his eyes. “Miss Tyrell was meant for _you_.”

“Father is very welcome to his displeasure,” said he, smoothing his waistcoat down with one hand as he stood from the table. Sansa watches him as he walks around to his niece, bent to retrieve the little wooden horse she had been desperate to rescue and wordlessly hand it back to the child. He left the now contented little girl with a kiss to her crown. How odd it is for a man to be so attentive to the young, Sansa thought. Jon had insisted that Visenya dine with the family instead of with the nanny Rhaenys had brought along with her.

It briefly reminds her of dear papa before she shook the notion from her mind.

His sister took a honeycake. “He’ll not rest until you too are wed, Jon.”

Sansa could sense her mother tense beside her. “I hope whomever you choose as your bride is... understanding.”

Jon leans back in his seat. “Aunt, you need not worry,” said he, “I would not be turning you out from your home for any bride.”

Mama makes a sigh. “You say that now, dear Jon, but I have seen what men do to appease their wives. And with Sansa no longer attached to Harry and now that she has –“

Her mother falters, swallowing back her words. The look she gave her was apologetic before she focuses singularly on her plate. The silence around the table is piercing. Sansa knew what her mother meant to say; that Sansa is no longer attached to Harry _and now that she has horrid scars._

Everyone was suddenly keenly interested in their food. Everyone, except cousin Jon. He was watching her in that way that he does. Little Visenya takes the opportunity to make trotting noises with her tongue as she moves her wooden horse across the tablecloth.

“Well,” Rhaenys says, cutting through the silence after a sip of her tea, “why do you not solve both issues in one manner?” Everyone was looking to her, confused. “Jon could wed Sansa and Mrs Stark needn’t fret over losing her home, Jon needn’t worry over father arranging another match and Sansa –“

_Sansa needn’t try in vain to catch herself a husband while looking the way she does now._

Sansa’s eyes found Jon’s. He colours and swallows. “Rhaenys,” he said, looking away, “you cannot be so indelicate as to discuss –“

“I would accept,” she heard herself say, unsure where the courage came from. She manages to stay strong and hold his gaze from across the table. “If you are agreeable to your sister’s proposal to our predicaments, I would accept your offer, cousin.”

He stares at her. She knows it is not in disgust – she may no longer be as fair as Miss Tyrell, but dear Jon would tolerate her scars. He makes her happy right the way through to her heart. He is quiet and he is strong and moral. He is not likened to Harry at all. Though he might very well agree to the match through a sense of duty to her and her mama, Sansa thinks she might be able to make him love her in time. She’s suddenly struck by how easily she imagines herself loving him in return. Perhaps she already does? Is that why she kissed him last night? Do her lips know her heart better than her mind?

Jon’s mouth has been softly agape since she spoke. He blinks at her, licks his lips and blinks some more. “I... alright,” said he, tearing his gaze away to clear his throat and address his sister. “You may write to father to tell him he need not engineer any further matches for me.”

Mother, sitting between them both, grasps hers and Jon’s hands excitedly, her head whipping back and forth. Sansa’s heart was feeling flighty like a gambling foal on its spindly legs. Jon’s face was still tinged pink but he offers her a soft smile.

Just then, Arya appears, not caring for her lateness nor her inelegant yawn as she enters the room. She halts, taking in everyone’s faces as they turn to look at her. “What has happened?” she asks, clearly sensing something was afoot.

***

Jon is sure he is a selfish, horrid man for what he has done to his cousin. Almost as soon as he begun to consciously covet her, he took her at the first opportunity, knowing full-well that her affections lie elsewhere. Knowing full-well that Sansa Stark dreamt of romantics and her soul finding its other half in matrimony. Knowing full well that she does not consider his soul for that purpose.

And yet still, he took her. He took her as his wife as soon as his sister suggested it. He had not approached her to ensure she was in her right mind in her acceptance of him – he was too afraid to, lest she come to her senses and their arrangement be broken. No, he stayed away from the subject so that as soon as the day came, not three weeks after Rhaenys’ suggestion, he took her for his own to sate his greed and jealousy.

It had been a small affair. Reverend Chayle presided at Winter Town Chapel and everyone was in their best looks. Rhaenys and Visenya prolonged their stay to attend. His father and his brother were abroad so sent their apologies but had organised for a goose and ham to be sent for the festivities. In truth, Jon would rather welcome the meat than the men, so this arrangement suited him just fine. Sansa had not understood him for it. Perhaps she will once she has the misfortune of meeting with them.

Jon remembers his palms slick with sweat standing in that holy place. The Gods are sure to know his selfish heart as they watch him take his bride, binding her to a man she does not love when she is so plainly made as a creature of affections.

Sansa arrived, face obscured by delicate netted lace. Her dress the purest of whites with little embroidered blue roses blooming here and there. Her hands trembled.

He does not deserve her, indeed he does not.

She smiled for him though – as all brides must do on their wedding day. She danced with him too, leading the way at the assembly halls.

When the night had retired and they found themselves in her room, his smiling, dancing bride had become quiet. She seemed as though she was transformed into a skittish lamb awaiting to be devoured by the wolf. He couldn’t and wouldn’t do that do her, no matter his own desires. She does not want him in that manner so he will not force it upon her. Some day, when she desires a child, he will readily give her whatever she wishes. But that night had felt wrong to trespass on intimacies for lovers when she does not see him as such. He kissed the back of her hand and bid her a peaceful night.

That kiss still burns his lips this three weeks since.

And now, they live their lives as though nothing has really changed. Sansa, as lady of the house has her duties, but her mother still likes to keep her hand in in that regard. She is now seated opposite him at table, a position befitting his wife and she has moved bedrooms to reflect her change in status. Beyond that, it is as if the day he bound her to himself never occurred.

Maybe that is for the best.

And still, Jon finds he is unable to leave Sansa be.

He hurries to catch her before she leaves the house. Spencer jacket and shawl secured for a walk about the grounds. She looks quite within her own mind and most likely is cursing him for intruding but she is polite, as ever and agrees on his accompanying her.

Sansa’s pace is brisk at times, as though she wishes to break free of him. She chatters and stops to pick blooms. Jon is content to follow, hands behind him as he watches, listens and offers the occasional grunt of agreement. She’s halfway through not very convincingly declaring that she is in no way jealous that some playwright had used some other great house and grounds as inspiration for a setting in his writing when Jon decides to finally talk.

“Why do you not write your own pieces, set to the Manor?” he asks, nodding his head back at the great house of Winterfell.

“Me?” Her steps start to slow.

“Hm.”

“Oh, I don’t... I don’t know if I could.”

“I could think of no other better suited for the task.”

Sansa’s cheeks colour and she looks away. She is quiet for a stride or three. “I would not presume to know of what to write,” says she, though the glance she gives him seems hopeful.

“Anything,” he answers, shrugging as they walk in step. Eyes cast down to the path beneath their feet as they walk along a wooded area of the grounds that Jon does not think he has had the pleasure to explore just yet. “Though, I rather think that you might like to set a great love story to the backdrop of Winterfell.”

Stopping to face him, Sansa looks at Jon as though he were a riddle. “Why do you say so?” She blinks those disarmingly beautiful doe eyes at him.

For a half a heartbeat his tongue forgets how to speak. “You-... Well, you enjoy those types of stories, do you not? Romances?”

Sansa considers his answer while she continues to map out his face. There’s a flash of something in his mind; Jon remembers her kiss, the way she felt in his arms. She was upset that night. It seems so long ago now. Just when he thinks she is to speak, Sansa turns and starts walking again. It takes a second or two for his boots to realise he needs to keep pace with her and follow.

She is quiet again. Had he said something displeasing?

“May I speak plainly?” The query is sudden.

Jon hopes that she always will. “Of course, Sansa.”

The quiet returns with its uneasy caress. Jon walks and waits, hoping whatever his wife says is not in any way connected with one certain Mr Waters. She wouldn’t do such a thing as that, would she? Wound him so easily with a confession?

Sansa’s footsteps come to a quick stop again, her half-boots scuffing the dried pine needles at her feet. “ _Oh_ ,” she spins, eyes darting everywhere not even looking at him at all now. “Oh no!...” The upset is as clearly read on her face as the hour upon a clock.

“Sansa?” Jon tries. She had not heard him.

“We must go,” says she, lifting her skirts and preparing to flee. “I must leave here.”

His hand curls about her arm. “Sansa, wait.” She turns to look at him and those beautiful blue eyes are aswim with tears. “Sansa, what has upset you so?”

Those eyes blink rapidly, willing the tears to dry up and whatever pain that had caused them away. Jon braces his sensibilities. If it is here and now that she tells him she is in love with another man and is unhappy in their marriage then he shall bear witness to her heartache. He will hear it all and shatter from within.

But he already knows he will not give her up so easily.

And therein lays the truth of his selfish heart.

“This is where father fell,” Sansa says, voice quiet and broken, eyes still skitting about the little wooded grove. “This is it, this is where he-“ she choked back a sob, “this is where he took his last breath.”

Jon could not speak. He had been preparing for his fractured heart to be torn asunder only for hers to have an earlier wound reopened.

“ _Sweet girl_ ,” he murmured, “ _come here.”_ Gathering her in his arms was more natural to him than just about anything else. She buries her face in his shoulder, nose pressing cold at his throat.

“He was out here, all alone,” she sobs.

“Shhh,” Jon murmurs, hand stroking through her long, silken hair. “He was home. He loved his home. It was but an unfortunate accident.”

Sansa buries herself deeper into his lapel, shaking. Jon wishes he could open himself up to let her crawl in if that would be something she wished for.

“I haven’t been here since it happened,” she confesses after a while, words mumbled into his greatcoat.

He could understand that. He also did not wish to have a part of her home that she was afraid of.

“What if his spirit is trapped here, in this lonely corner of the estate?”

Jon’s arms tighten around her frame. “Your father’s spirit is not trapped here,” he said gently, but with certainty. “It lives in you, your sister, your mother and the kind words the staff of Winterfell still have to say for him.”

Turning her head, Sansa looks up at him. She was unbelievably close, surrendered herself completely to be in his arms. “And you,” she breathes, stepping away and wiping her cheeks to compose herself. “You are so much like father.”

“I do not dare to flatter myself.”

“You _are_.”

Jon’s smile was small. “Thank you.” He looks around, trying to shake the awkward feel settling around them. Behind him, one could just about see the manor through the leaves and reaching arms of the trees. “I think we should come here again,” he declares. Sansa only turns to look at him, unsure. “I think we should come here again and you should tell me something about your father – a happy memory, anything. And I think we should keep coming here and each time, you can tell me something different until I feel as though I know the man better.”

Her smiling eyes fell shyly to the ground. “I would like that.”

“Besides,” said he, offering his arm so that they might continue on their walk, “if my uncle’s spirit does dwell here from time to time, I would’ve thought the man would appreciate our company, no?”

Sansa’s soft chuckle lifted his heart.

***

Sansa has come to the conclusion that her husband is a perplexing creature. Just the mention of him being her husband stirs a flutter lower than her tummy. When she first met him, she thought him exceedingly dull. She now knows her estimation of him was wholly incorrect, and most likely blinded by her then adoration for Harry. Jon is not dull by any measure. He is dear and he is kind. He has a very sharp wit when he elects to show it... and there is just something so terribly pleasing about the earnest look in his eyes when he talks to her. It makes her heart skip as though it were dancing a reel.

But Sansa must confess she does not fully understand him or his motives.

Sometimes she sees a shadow of something promising in the way he looks at her or the upturn of his smile; something that might mean the world to her heart, might mean that he feels it too – that tug, that-

But then she stops herself. If she starts having notions of Jon’s soul being the other half to hers, she might begin to believe it. And the last time she believed such a thing was an unmitigated disaster.

Jon is no Harry, though. Thank the Gods.

But he can be... _aloof_ upon occasion too. She yearns to peer into his mind and learn all his secrets, all his desires, for she cannot be sure of any she can guess from his expressions alone.

One morning, mama receives some correspondence from an old friend. They had been loosely acquainted with Harry and the letter contained information about the new Mrs Hardyng being swollen with child and looking the picture of health. Sansa watches Jon’s expression closely as her mother read out the passages from her friend. His eyes flicker to her but drop instantly to his newspaper as soon as he caught her studying him. His face turns stony and he clears his throat and shifts in his seat when mama reaches the section where her friend told of scandalous musings of how far along Mrs Hardyng seemed.

She so wants to know what he was thinking.

He glances to her briefly again and shuffles the paper in his hands. “I do not care for gossip, Mrs Stark,” said he. “Pray, does your friend speak of more interesting topics?”

And that had been the close of it. Did he really begin to care for Miss Tyrell when she had been a possibility for him? Does he wish she were carrying his child instead of Harry’s? Does it pain him to hear this news?

It suddenly occurs to her that _she_ should be the one to feel the sour curdle of jealousy. ‘Mrs Hardyng’ had meant to be _her_ title. _She_ was meant to carry his babe.

Her eyes find Jon again and as soon as they meet, he diverts his attention back to his blasted paper. Sansa finds that the only jealousy she feels comes from notions of Jon still holding affections for another, unblemished woman while taking her and her burns to wife for his duty.

She did not enjoy thinking on it, though it plays on her mind often. “Arya and I saw Mr Waters in Winter Town today,” she says brightly, changing the subject matter to one of a more happy interest. Arya lifts her eyes, a scowl on her face. She may glare all her heart desires, but Sansa knows she’s quite sweet on the man. “He helped us choose ribbons at Mordanes.”

“He helped _you_ buy ribbons, you mean.” Her sister has no patience for such frivolities the likes of which Sansa delights in.

“He was very cordial and good humoured,” she says nodding her head and glancing to make sure mama had heard her. Sansa has no doubts as to the affections betwixt the two shy lovers, but with Mr Waters being the natural son of a lord and not legitimate, she frets that her mother may have objections to the match. She prays that she will not. Sansa’s marriage to Jon has secured her mother’s and Arya’s futures here at Winterfell after all, so why should her sister not be allowed to marry for love?

Her mother seemed uninterested, her nose tucked firmly back into the words from her friend. Sansa may have to engineer some happenstances for Mr Waters to meet with mama so that she will see for herself what an agreeable young man he is and what a fine husband he might make for Arya.

When her gaze moves across the room, she catches Jon looking at her in a rather queer manner.

***

Outside, the sky falls in fat, grey raindrops, pelting the earth and making the ground sodden. Jon will not take her on their walk today – they’ve done it every day this fortnight since they’d accidently stumbled upon the west side of the estate. And every day, as promised, Sansa would tell Jon something about her father. Oftentimes, she does not know what tale to tell when they start out on foot, but by the time they reach that point – the area where she had her attack of grief – some memory will have come to her – often, ones she hadn’t thought of in years. And after every telling she feels lighter somehow.

But there will be no walk today.

Alys is taking her measurements for some of the new fashions she’d shown her in Ackermann's Repository. Mama is currently discussing the sennight’s dinner options with cook – a task that would normally fall to Sansa now that she is lady of the house but dear mama insists on still having her uses so Sansa thinks it is best to leave her to a schedule of her own making. Arya is gods knows where – one of the pointer bitches whelped some pups last night so in the kennels would be Sansa’s best guess. Jon is in his study. He has been in his study for almost the entirety of the morning.

Sansa plans to go to him. She has designs on asking a very particular question – a very particular question that she may not enjoy the answer to. And for this purpose, she must be dressed properly. She does not know why she feels her current day dress is insufficient – and yet she does. It is not as though, her manner of dress would determine the answer to her question, is it?

Or is it?

Sansa taps on her lower lip, stepping out from where Alys had been measuring about her hips. “Could you fetch me the pink chemise gown, please, Alys,” she said, rather absentmindedly while holding up a necklace to her chest. It did not distract from the scar crawling up one side of her body. Perhaps something bigger? Something more fine?

After dressing, Alys styled her hair down and Sansa fussed with it further after she had left. Pinching a pink to her cheeks, she stares at herself in the looking glass. _Oh gods,_ she hopes he gives her the answer she longs to hear.

With a heart beating at a galloping speed, Sansa raises her hand to knock upon Jon’s door.

“ _Enter.”_ His voice was a lord’s voice. It made the downy hairs on the back of her neck rise. His face and voice soften once he lays eyes on her. “ _Sansa_ ,” he said, standing from his seated position to welcome her with a bow, “what can I do for you?”

Making sure the door had clicked shut firmly, Sansa takes one step and then two into the room. Jon was still stood at the other side of his desk. A map of the estate had been unfurled to cover it and there were a few books on land management stacked to the side. She wanted to flee but forced herself to stand her ground and swallow down her insecurities. “May I speak plainly, Jon?”

“Of course.”

Oh how to phrase this with delicacy? “You-...” Sansa’s eyes found the floor as her fingers tangle together. She told herself to cease fidgeting. “We have not consummated our marriage.” There – she’d set the subject matter quite plainly. There shall be no retreat from it now.

Lifting her gaze, she found Jon still standing, staring at her. His tongue rolled out to wet his lips. “No,” said he, “we have not.”

“Why have we not?” she asks. “I have been your wife for moons now and you have still not come to me.”

“I-“

“Is it my scars?” _Is it Margaery?_

Almost comically, Jon had a look about him as though she’d slapped him about the face. “Your- _No!”_ He hurries around the desk to come to her, taking both her hands in his. “ _No,_ sweet girl, of course not!”

“But then why? I know ours is a marriage of duty but –“

“I thought you did not want me to –“

Their words had tumbled out over one another, but now they were both as silent as snowfall while they each study the other.

“Well... I _do_ want you to.”

Jon continues to make his study of her. Sansa could feel her cheeks heating under his gaze. Sucking in a breath, he brought her knuckles to his mouth to lay a soft kiss there. “Had I known, I would not have kept you wanting, my lady,” he said, his voice turning deep in a way that stirred Sansa in unmentionable ways.

“May I kiss you?” she asks on a whisper.

“You may do anything you please.”

Sansa had already leant in, eyes slid shut and her mouth a breath away from pressing to his when Jon’s sentiment registered in her mind. With Harry, he had always led the dance and on the awful night of the fire, it had been _his_ wants that had been pressed. But with Jon, it was different. He would surrender himself to her completely and ask for nought in return. Her eyes flick open. “May I _touch_ you?” she asks, the words hot against his lips.

She is a creature of greed, it seems.

Jon’s eyes opened slowly. “Yes.”

With a heart feeling as flighty as a house sparrow’s, Sansa lifts her hand to gently trace the curve of Jon’s cupid’s bow with her fingertips. He was patient as she went around his lips once, twice. She could feel the burn of his ardent gaze as he allowed her this exploration. And it occurred to her; Jon truly would allow her anything.

“May I ask,” said she, swallowing thickly, “may I ask that you remove your tail coat... please.”

Wordlessly, Jon obeys her wish and her hands find his shoulders. He still wears his waistcoat and shirt, but somehow Sansa can feel the heat of his skin as though he were bare. The thought makes her blush further. Her touch slides down to his chest, rising and falling under her palms. He is firm, are all men build similarly? His upper arms are firm also; she can feel the power held within but knows he would always be gentle with her. Those arms had once saved her life from the jaws of a fire, after all. Returning to his torso, Sansa slowly moves lower to his abdomen. She could hear Jon struggling to keep his breathing measured. The control he allowed her made her feel light of head. But then –

“ _Oh_ ,” Sansa gasps, hands retracting and face positively aflame now. There, at the forefront of his breeches, was an unmistakable mass.

“My lady!” his hands reach down to cover the bulge. “Forgive me, Sansa, I –“

“I do not mind,” she is quick to say. On the contrary, she is rather curious.

“You do not?”

Sansa shakes her head, no, and watches as Jon’s hands retreat to his sides, once again surrendering himself for her inspection. Stepping closer, she can only take her eyes from the protuberance for a brief moment to take note of the embarrassment wrought over her dear man’s face. He clears his throat, gaze fixed upwards. Sansa thinks to ask one more thing of him. _Oh!_ But how wicked she has become. “May I have your permission to –“

“ _Yes.”_

The answer is swift and almost choked. Sansa wonders if he possesses the skill of reading minds.

Gentle at first, she tentatively brushes a slow drag of fingertips along the length of her husband’s clothed manhood. Jon’s eyes slide shut. He seems to cease breathing until her name escapes on a breath so seeped in reverence it near makes her feel like a deity or a queen.

Her feet bring her closer still, Jon’s hot breath cresting on her cheek. But Sansa concentrates on tracing the shape of him through the buckskin of his breeches. Attempting to cover him with her palm causes Jon to lean into her, a spine-tingling groan leaving his lips and his nose pressing to her temple.

“Is this... agreeable?” Sansa whispers, swallowing.

She would swear that Jon pants his reply of “ _yes,_ sweet girl, yes,” as he begins to nuzzle at her like one of the affectionate hunt dogs searching for attention.

Something occurs to her as she’s sating her curiosity of her husband’s sizable hardened length. “Will it... will it fit?” As soon as the question leaves her, Sansa bites on her lip, but it is for nought, since the words had already been spoken. She daren’t meet Jon’s heavy gaze as he continues to breath hot on her skin.

“Yes,” is all he says and presses a long, sweet kiss to her temple, broken off with a whine when Sansa begins to stroke him through his breeches. “ _Sansa,”_ he whispers reverently. His hands twitch, clenching and unclenching and Sansa wonders if he yearns to touch her in return. “Sweet girl... beautiful... beautiful girl...” His babbling groans are like sermons of passion the likes of which Sansa has never before heard, nor has she the experience of the tingles betwixt her thighs.

They are so wonderfully close. There is nary a wisp of space where he and she stand and he is allowing her such terrifyingly improper intimacies upon his person without demanding a return that Sansa feels she might float away from her lightness of head. Impossibly, she moves closer still, pressing her front to his, igniting a shuddering hot breath that washes over her, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. She attempts – as best she can through the material – to close her hand around his manhood.

It is then that they are intruded upon. “Jon! Sansa!” Arya calls while already almost falling through the door. Sansa yelps inelegantly and leaps away from Jon, face burning at the prospect of being found so guiltily. Her husband had hastily turned his back on their intruder, lest her sister be able to view his clear state of arousal. “There you are,” she declares, amused. “Mama is looking for you both, she wants to discuss the hire of additional kitchen hands.”

Sansa’s heart was still hammering against her ribs, but it seems her sister had not borne witness to her exploration of her husband’s body. “I’m sure mother is very capable of –“

Arya rolls her eyes. “As lord and lady she wants your opinion,” says she, in a very dull tone indeed before eyeing Jon’s back curiously.

“I...” Sansa starts, smoothing down her skirts, “alright,” she says, starting towards the door. “Jon is... a little indisposed currently, but I will come to see mama.” She made to follow her sister, only halting to glance back at her husband as she made the doorway. He threw her a look before she left it had her grinning and very certain that she would be welcoming a visitor this night.

***

The candle in his hand flickered, casting dancing shadows down the hallway. A few more steps and Jon will be at his wife’s room. His heart was in danger of bursting from the exultation of today’s happenings. The warmth of her body so near and her touch as she explored him had stayed with him throughout the day. His mind had become atumble with all things Sansa and hardly any serious work had been accomplished at all. He could not keep his eyes from straying to her all throughout supper. _Gods!_ He’d very almost made a mess of seed in his breeches with the way she smoothed her palm up and down him in his study.

And she had said she wants visits by him. That is surely an encouragement of the heart, is it not? Perhaps, if it is properly nurtured, a love for him might bloom and outgrow her attachments for any other man. Perhaps one does not simply _find_ the soul to which fits yours perfectly, but together, two souls can be carefully crafted to match over time?

Jon finds that his mind is so completely involved that he’s quite taken aback when Sansa’s door opens and closes to release his wife’s lady’s maid from her duties.

“My lord,” she bobs up and down in greeting here in the dark evening hallway and even in the dim, Jon can see a blush to her cheeks. She is aware of his intent in being here. No doubt she had just helped prepare her lady.

“Alys,” he bows. “Is my lady well?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Jon spies the small folded parchment in her hand. “She has been keeping her correspondence, I see.”

“Yes, my lord. A letter for Mr Waters to go out on the morn.”

The sinking of his heart was weighed down by no more than that letter clutched in the hand of a lady’s maid. It was weighty indeed.

***

There is a terrible war raging within Sansa’s sensibilities this morn. Jon had not come to her last night as she had been certain he would, and she did not quite know which was the appropriate emotion she should be in use of.

She was upset, that is for certain. She had been light of head all day with thoughts of sharing further intimacies with him that night.

She was angry too. Jon had declared that the only obstacle in his path to laying with her was a perceived disinterest from her. She had told him plainly that that was false; she did want his touches and his kisses and for him to take her maiden’s gift. And yet still he did not come. Did he lie?

And then there was the voice in her mind that gave her a third option. It told her that she was being overly dramatic, that she should not fret over this. That Jon is lord of this estate and he can do as he pleases, lay with her when he pleases and it just so happened that it did not please him that particular night. He may have been tired, or unwell, or called away. He could have been working late and thought her asleep by the time his work is completed.

At present, all three reactions were tumbling around within her, one clamouring to be victorious only to be knocked down by the next. And so the cycle revolved until she was quite sick with it all.

Sansa urges Alys to dress her quickly. Her feet hardly touch the stairs as she flew down them. She felt like a thunderstorm, though she’s not certain that she isn’t meant to be a summer breeze. Eyes land on the empty seat at the head of the table as soon as she enters the room. Mother is sipping tea, Arya is picking at her plum cake.

“Where is Jon?”

Silence met her along with everyone’s attention. She looks to Jory, stood at the wall. “I believe his lordship has gone riding.”

“ _Riding?!”_ The rain from yesterday had carried to this morn and still it beat the earth sodden. Worry now joined in the great race of emotions. That _stupid_ man!

Fear fed the thunderstorm within and it grew as she bolted from the room. How dare he ride in such weather?! Does he not _think_ of the possible consequences? Does he think _at all_?! She found herself at the window of the drawing room. The rain hammered on the glass. Normally, she might find the sound a soothing one but now it only served to stoke the fire instead of quench it. The sight outside was grey and green as far as one might be able to see. But she saw him returning – he, her reckless husband who had decided to mount his black gelding on a day such as this.

He could –

_He could –_

What could befall a rider in such weather does not bear thinking about. Dear papa’s misfortune itself occurred on a much finer day.

Anger was winning the great battle and it propelled Sansa quite fiercely. She only hesitated for half a heartbeat at the threshold of the great doors, but soon she found herself holding her skirts and running, sprinting as fast as her half-boots would take her across the sodden pea-gravel. She had forgone a bonnet, no shawl to protect her from the pelting rain. Her skin, hair and dress were soaked as soon as her feet had met with the grass lawn. Ahead, Jon’s horse had broken into a gallop, seemingly racing to meet her. There was nothing in Sansa’s mind besides the thought of meeting him. Quite what she will do or say once she gets him off his blasted horse she does not know.

Their paths convene at an ancient oak. Coming to a steady halt, Sansa’s hair and skirts are clinging to her skin, drops of rainfall drip from her nose, she’s certain she must look a fright but she hardly cares a jot.

Jon meets her eyes, slowing his gelding as he nears. The horse’s hooves are still frisky with life so it circles her where she stands. “What in heavens are you doing?” he asks. “You’re soaked through!”

“ _What am I doing?!”_ she shouts over the rain. Jon continues to circle her. Rain was falling in her eyes. “ _What are **you** doing, Jon?! Why would you ride in such weather?! Anything could have befallen you. Have you taken leave of all your senses, sir?!” _She was a creature of anger now and sharp were her claws. _“Or perhaps you have no care? Perhaps you do as you please, when you please and hang anyone who might have feelings on the matter.”_

Jon dismounts, his eyes as savage and storm-ridden as the grey skies above them. He allows his horse to wander away loose as he takes Sansa by the arm and leads her to the protection of the old oak tree. “I have a care, _wife_ ,” he all but hisses as he spins to face her, rain dripping from the brim of his tophat, “I have many a care. That is precisely why I took the ride – to get away from the house. To-to _think_.”

Sansa wrenches free from his grasp. “And what have you to think on, Jon? Your thoughts must surely be numerous and devourous of your time, for evidently you have none to spare me.”

His eyes flit between her own. He walks away only to return in an instant. “You are angry with me.” It was a statement but there was query behind it.

“I waited for you,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. “I waited for your visit. But finding employment and pleasures that are of greater importance seems to come easily to you and you did not come.”

Jon makes a laugh so foreign it sounds cruel and devoid of mirth. “I will not share you, Sansa.” He steps closer, a ravening look in his eye. “I cannot make my visits and make love to my wife while she thinks of another.”

Confused, Sansa blinks the rain from her lashes. “I do not understand your meaning.”

“I was aware you were keen to accept my hand to offer protection to your mother and sister, was even prepared to accept that ours would be a marriage of duty but-“ Jon pauses, takes a breath and removes his tophat, using the sodden accessory to point in her direction. “You gave me hope yesterday, Sansa. You gave me hope all while holding another man in your heart and that was badly done.”

Sansa was at a loss. “But...” she shook her head, “... Harry?”

“ _This is not about bloody Harrold Hardying! Waters! You hold Gendry Waters in your heart and in the process you have shattered mine!”_

She was still none the clearer. “ _Gendry Waters?_ But why would you think such a thing?”

Jon let out a defeated sort of huff. A raindrop fell from his nose. “Last night,” he said, “I had been on my way to make my visit to you when I met with Alys vacating your room.” He looks to her as though this were all the information she is in need of. “She had with her a letter,” Jon supplies when all Sansa could do was stare back in confusion.

_A letter?... Oh!_

“I wrote to Mr Waters to invite him to dine with us,” she explains. “But he is meant for Arya, not me! Good Gods, Jon! We are married! You really thought my eye had strayed?”

He stood straighter. “I-... You always sang his praises? Mr Baratheon had said that his nephew had taken a liking to you the night of the fire. You speak of him in a manner similar to how you once spoke of Hardyng.”

There was an impossible laugh somewhere at the base of her throat but all Sansa was able to do was shake her head. “No, no. It is Arya he is keen on, I assure you. And the only affections I feel for him is that of a potential brother-by-law. The praises of his I sing are all for mama’s benefit so that she might look on his prospects kindly.” He stood there, blinking at her. “There is no one else in my heart, but you, Jon. I swear it.”

With eyes darting around, Jon looked to be fitting her words together. He believes her, doesn’t he? How could he think that she would love Mr Waters when she has him? “You love me?” he asks, looking at her now, rain making his hair stick to his skin. “Truly?”

For the first time today a smile breaks upon Sansa’s face. “ _Yes_ ,” she nods.

Jon takes her waist in his hands and walks her back until she is pressed against the rough bark of the oak. He’s still searching her face as though he does not believe it. “How long?” he whispers.

“I do not know,” she answers truthfully, “though I suspect my soul found its other half when you danced a waltz with me. I just refused to listen.”

Lowering his mouth to hers, his next words ghost her lips. “Then it is a very perilous dance indeed.”

“Yes,” she swallows, “ _it is.”_

Jon’s eyes flicker to hers from his intended destination of her mouth. “Sansa,” he says, voice cracked, “does this utter fool have permission to kiss you, my lady?”

“Yes,” she answers on a breath and his kiss is searing and tender both. She welcomes the thrill of his tongue and the press of his body against hers. It is over sooner than it ought to be, causing an inelegant whine to leave her lips when Jon pulls away.

“We should get you indoors,” he says, gathering her hands in his and bringing them to his lips. He leans forward, touching his forehead to hers. She doesn’t want to go indoors. She doesn’t want for Jon to stop kissing her. He speaks as though he had read her thoughts. “You are shivering.” Is she? She had not noticed it. Jon continues to lay tender kisses to her fingers. When his next words come, they are delivered along with a saucy gleam to his eye. “We will need you out of those soaked clothes, Mrs Targaryen. You’ll catch cold if you do not and I have plenty of ideas on how to warm you.”

Their smiles were identical and matched equally in softness and mischief. “What ideas?” she asks.

Jon gently cradles her face in his hands, the rain still pattering on the tree canopy above. “ _To love you_ ,” he declares earnestly. “Fiercely, tenderly, and eternally.”

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it - I finished something!! Woo hoo!! I hope you enjoyed it :)


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